Clara Hughes on discovering joy

Community & Current Events

Clara Hughes on discovering joy

The 2004–5 skating season had been my best yet, taking me to my second Winter Olympics, in Torino, but I started partying hard again. I was alone on the road, and it just happened. With high-level athletes—perhaps with high-level anything—you often assume an all-or-nothing attitude that spawns what-the-hell behaviour. Especially when you're drinking and smoking and staying up half the night, yet still posting good results. You think
you can do anything, because for a while you can.

I went to bed loaded too many nights. At the 2005 World All-Round Championships in Moscow, I won bronze in the 5000 metres, then became so drunk I almost missed the airport bus the next morning at six. My coach, Xiuli Wang, found me fumbling around the hall, aghast to see an athlete of hers so hammered. I didn't have a key; I couldn't get into my room and hadn't packed. She got me in, then rounded up all my stuff. When I stumbled into the shuttle, where the rest of the team was waiting, I was confronted by a lot of pissed-off looks.

My husband, Peter, who had no idea I was leading such a self-destructive life, visited me at the World Single Distance Championships in Inzell, Germany. I won silver in the team pursuit and bronze in the 5000 metres, then shocked my moderate husband by the number of drinks I tossed back at the bar.

He asked, "What are you doing? This is stupid." He left me still drinking with the Russians. I don't know how I made it back to our room—I suppose someone helped me. I was sick, threw up in the shower, then fell asleep on the bathroom floor. Peter left for
Canada the next morning, having made clear how disappointed he was in me. I had convinced myself that I was having a great time on the circuit, but when someone I loved saw me as a loser despite my external success, I was forced to take a hard look at myself. Xiuli was also fed up with me. She insisted that I promise not to get drunk until after the Torino Olympics, then made me shake hands on that. It was a promise I would keep.

Though I was glad to blame the pressures of racing, I was learning once again that I couldn't outskate or outcycle the gnawing darkness I carried inside myself, no matter how many shiny medals I won. My addiction, and whatever powerful emotions it covered up, was still something I was unwilling to confront. Sometimes I turned to alcohol, sometimes to food.

For the first week of the Games, I wandered around in a vortex of negativity, watching my teammates win medal after medal while I had only our team pursuit silver tucked away in my drawer. I spoke to a skier from Alpine Canada, who complained about his coaches having sealed him inside the Olympic dome. They had ordered him not to watch or explore or experience anything in order to
focus, focus, focus. "I've been to two Olympics, and they've been the worst experiences of my life."

The advice the skier received had the opposite effect on me. A few days before the 5000 metres, I decided to take in more of the Olympic experience—anything to distract me from how bad I felt on the ice. This decision led me to the booth of
Right to Play, a Toronto-based organization founded by former Norwegian speed skater Johann Olav Koss, winner of four Olympic gold medals. Since retiring from competition, Johann had trained as a physician, then combined his medical and athletic expertise to use sport to help youth in disadvantaged countries. I was deeply moved by what I saw.

That feeling continued into the evening, when I watched American Joey Cheek, who'd just won the men's 500 metres, announce on TV that he was donating his winnings to
Right to Play to
help the children of Darfur. That seed money—$25,000—would eventually attract $500,000 when others matched it.

Both Kristina Groves, who was watching with me, and I wondered if we had it in us to do the same thing. Neither of us was sure. As
Canadian athletes, our situation was skaters from many other nations, since we would not be receiving reward money for winning in Torino. However, I knew that I did have $10,000 in the bank. I asked myself:
If I win a medal, could I use the podium to turn my $10,000 into a much larger donation, as Joey had?

With this thought as a spur, I decided to change my Olympian experience by shifting my attitude from
I can't skate into
Maybe this is how I'm supposed to feel before winning the Olympics. That had worked for me in Seoul, when I won gold in the 5000 metres, so why not now? I took the little sparkle I found hidden inside myself and built on it, so that it twinkled a bit more each day.

The night before the 5000-metre race, Xiuli came to my room with the pairings. She asked: "Do you really want to know?"

I exclaimed, "Oh, no, not Claudia Pechstein!"

She nodded. "Yes, you're with Claudia. The outer lane."

For me, it was the worst pairing possible, because every time I skated with Claudia, she got the better of me.

After Xiuli left, I felt empty and alone, with only my worried thoughts. To distract myself, I turned on the TV. A Swiss silver-medal winner was figure-skating to an awful James Blunt song but creating some of the most beautiful figures I'd ever seen. He was dressed in black and moving with total freedom and joy, spinning and gliding and jumping and swaying. I was so impressed that I wrote Joy on my hand, reminding myself that's how I wanted to skate the following day. After that, I went to sleep with a
smile on my face.

On the morning of the 5000 metres, I had coffee and breakfast, then did a little spin on my rollers. I found myself in that familiar place of passing time: not thinking too much, not thinking too little; not resting too much, or too little; not talking too much, just having light conversations. I had a long day to put in because I did not race until six that evening.

When I turned on the TV set, CBC was showing a Right to Play documentary about Uganda, featuring Canadian Olympians—Steve Podborski, a downhill skier, and Charmaine Crooks, a sprinter. I watched, mesmerized, as former child soldiers, born into war and poverty and HIV/AIDS, engaged in play as if they had no worries. They were dirt poor and so shy as they sneaked glances at the cameras, then quickly turned away.

I looked at the word on my hand, and then the faces of the children, and I told myself:
You're going to win the Olympics, and you're going to give your own $10,000 to Right to Play.

Joy became my mantra.

I moved through the rest of that day as if through a dream. I envisioned the race unfolding—me being behind at the beginning, then coming on strong in the final two laps. All I had to do was bring myself to the line, then not waver from my mission, which was far greater than simply winning.

When I showed up at the oval, the first person I saw was Claudia. She was cordial, saying, "Hey, how's it going?" I thought:
You think you're going to work me over, but you have no idea how on to you I am.

We were the last pair to race. I went through my warm-up on the ice, which was simply a reminder that I knew how to skate. I made no special effort and felt neither good nor bad.

I remember standing on the line, hearing myself introduced to the packed venue by name, country, and
past successes. Because Claudia was the three-time defending champion, her ovation was enormous. Even though I'd won the World Cup and was World Champion two years before, my accomplishments paled beside Claudia's. I wanted to destroy her. The English announcer was Matt Jordan, my strength trainer who worked the big competitions, which I took as a good sign. I stood fiddling with my glasses, thinking:
Just shoot the gun.

Glancing up into the crowd, I noticed a little girl in braids holding a paper Canadian flag and a sign with big red letters: FORZA CLARA. It was Rebecca, from the family whose house we were renting for Peter. Her eyes had that look of hope and jubilation that I'd seen in those kids from Uganda, thanks to Right to Play. I told myself:
Don't look up again because you'll lose it. I glanced at my hand instead—
Joy.

The gun fired.

I felt relaxed, then I tightened up, and Xiuli yelled at me to relax again and to breathe. The crowd was quiet. The Dutch had skated terrible races, and because we were so far behind Cindy's time, the spectators thought this was a dud event. At first, there was no enthusiasm whatsoever as Matt counted down the laps, but we were inching closer to Cindy's winning time, and the crowd realized they were potentially witnessing the gold medal race. By the time I started to feel the pain, they were shouting.

With about three laps to go, I caught sight of Claudia in my peripheral vision, and she was
looking a little tired, not as awesome as usual. I knew she was cracking, and that's when I had to attack. At precisely the point when knives pierced every muscle, I let the roar of the crowd ring in my ears, as if someone had switched off the mute button. I channelled the energy, drank it in, while repeating
Lower, longer, stronger, and suddenly, I was going faster. With one more lap on the inner, I was even with Claudia. I urged myself to go as hard as possible because Claudia would have my draft on the last lap, which would slingshot her into the inner for a win. I skated like someone was chasing me with a knife. As I went down the backstretch, I could see Claudia's coach, but I didn't care. I was going to run him over if he got in my way. By my last outer, I was in agonizing pain. I couldn't see Claudia in my peripheral vision, so I focused on the finish line:
Just get me there.

I threw my blade across that line, knowing I'd beaten Claudia, the three-time 5000-metre Olympic winner. Only then did I look at the numbers. I had broken the seven-minute barrier—6:59.07! I screamed, putting my head in my hands. I'd just won gold at the Olympics!

My body gave out and I collapsed, lying on the ice, sick with pain. When I turned my face, I saw Xiuli. She whispered, "I know you're hurting, but people are watching. You are on television. You should stand up."

After some coaxing, I managed not only to stand but to skate a lap with the
Canadian flag flying high over my head, like an enormous wing, allowing me to feel it—pure joy. I, too, was flying.

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Culture & Entertainment

Hygge: The Art of "Finding Magic in the Ordinary"

Culture & Entertainment

Hygge: The Art of "Finding Magic in the Ordinary"

Think about some of your warmest memories—drinking wine and reminiscing with girlfriends, chatting with your mom while she whips up a batch of your favourite muffins, having a dinner date that leads to cocktails that leads to stargazing by the water because neither of you want the night to end—that’s hygge. It’s finding happiness in the every day, and all you need to be able to attain it is to know about it.

Some say the Danish word is pronounced “hooga” but according to Marie Tourell Søderberg, author of Hygge: The Danish Art of Happiness, it’s like this: The “y” is similar to the French “y” sound—think “huge,” and the “gge” sounds like the first syllable in “girl.” But, it doesn’t really matter how you say "hygge"—you just need to get it. And to get it, you need to know where it comes from.

Hygge originates from a Norwegian word that means “well-being,” and in English, it means “coziness,” but it’s much more than that. Hygge is appreciating the little things in life. It’s “all the small things that make us feel safe, loved and satisfied,” says Søderberg. Hygge is doing things with warmth and joy, being present in the moment, and having a feeling of home—in other words, the Danish way of life.

Denmark is ranked as one of the happiest nations in the world, and hygge is likely an “ingredient in the Danish recipe for happiness,” says author Meik Wiking in his book, The Little Book of Hygge. Compared to other Europeans, Danes “meet most often with their friends and family and feel the calmest and most peaceful.” And that’s why there’s a growing interest in hygge.

Books on the subject are quickly filling up store shelves—a simple Indigo search will pull up more than five books on hygge, all of which have come out in the later half of 2016 (including Søderberg’s and Wiking’s) or will be coming out in the early months of 2017—just in time for winter, which is pretty much the reason why hygge exists.

In her book, Søderberg says, “It originated due to the need to create joy, warmth and togetherness in a country that boasts long, cold winters”—something Canadians can relate to. Hygge encourages you to embrace the cold months instead of waiting for the sun to shine again. But, anyone, anywhere, can enjoy the benefits of hygge any time of year, as it’s all about sharing moments with those you love, indulging in comfort foods, and taking in the sights and sounds around you.

Understanding hygge and having a name for it helps you recognize it and look for it in your day-to-day life. “Including it in our daily narratives and language makes us aware of the qualities of the word. Saying, ‘let’s hygge tonight,’ states a clear intention of what qualities we want our evening to have—presence, lovingness, relaxed, informal—all these qualities in one word,” says Søderberg.

Intimate candlelit dinner parties, mulled wine by a fire and ice skating under twinkling lights are classic hygge moments, but it can also be found when you're not expecting it. Hygge can happen in the least hyggelig (the adjective form of “hygge”) locations or in those in-between moments throughout your day—like when you're hiding from the rain under an awning with a friend, listening to a sax player as you wait for the next subway to arrive, or laughing with your sister over the phone.

Although hygge can happen anywhere, the most common place for it is at home, so it helps to make your living quarters feel warm, safe and welcoming—think candles, warm textiles and plenty of personal touches. In Søderberg’s book, she shares decorating advice from Nordic interior design expert Christina B. Kjeldsen: “The hygge comes when you feel that the person behind the surroundings is completely comfortable with his or her choices, but at the same time isn’t afraid of decorating intuitively and trying out new things and ideas…When you put thoughtfulness into how and why you have chosen to surround yourself with particular furniture, objects, art, flowers, knick-knacks, curtains—whatever—then you relax and your guests will see and know you for who you are.”

But, it’s important not to feel pressure to create a perfect space or occasion and force hygge. Decorate your space for you and not how you think it should be, and let moments unfold naturally—something that can be all too rare in this social media age. Søderberg warns, “The most hyggelig evening can look like a disaster in a picture, and opposite—the least hyggelig can look like a perfect evening.” But, if you have a true hyggling moment, it’ll be a “piece of art to capture the exact sense of an atmosphere in a photo.”

So, keep hygge on your mind. Make plans to hygge, be present in every moment, and soak up life's glories. And if you do, you’ll be gifted with the ability to, as Søderberg says, “[find] the magic in the ordinary.”